


Don't Cry Over Spilt Tea

by kateandbarrel



Series: Keywords Series [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Introspection, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-12
Updated: 2011-04-12
Packaged: 2017-10-17 23:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kateandbarrel/pseuds/kateandbarrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has feelings for Sherlock, but Sherlock doesn't have any for John. Or does he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Cry Over Spilt Tea

**Author's Note:**

> For the 'Changes' prompt of my fandomverse Big Bang. Follow-up fic to Waterlogged.

Sherlock was extremely observant. _Obviously._ And John knew this - so why did he persist on pretending that his feelings for Sherlock didn’t exist?

Granted, Sherlock did not reciprocate. Feelings weren’t exactly his forte, especially not ones so dramatic and superfluous as _affection_ or _lust._

But he knew that John must feel something towards Sherlock. It was easy to read in John’s gaze, lingering on Sherlock’s face fractionally longer than it did when they’d first met; in John’s sudden awkwardness when the bare flesh of their hands accidentally brushed against one another when in close quarters. In the way John attempted to not-so-subtly adjust himself after they’d been sitting next to each other on the couch for a long period of time.

So why hadn’t John said anything? Sherlock was given to understand that usually, when people felt attraction, they tried to act upon it. Instead, John seemed to be attempting to bury his feelings where he might not ever access them again. (And failing miserably.)

Did John think the revelation would damage their friendship? Sherlock had been desired by people before. Molly, for instance, regularly pursued him - though that had cooled quite a bit after the Moriarty incident - and it was easy enough for Sherlock to brush off. He had no problem continuing to work with Molly. Surely John realized that it didn’t bother him in the slightest?

***

“I think I’ve still got water in my ear,” John sighed, poking a finger into his ear canal.

“Tilt your head to a forty-five degree angle,” Sherlock replied, and sat on the couch and picked up a nearby magazine and opened it to a random page, though he wasn’t really reading it.

It was the day after they’d wrapped up their most recent case, and they’d only just gotten back to the flat after finally tracking the killer down moments before he boarded a train. It had been another thrilling conclusion to a case, and Sherlock was still on a high from it. They’d fought the suspect in the middle of the station, and John had kneeled on the perpetrator’s back on the floor while Sherlock located a payphone to summon Lestrade. It took him and his men twenty minutes to get there, and Sherlock and John had spent most of that time laughing breathlessly over the prone man as he cursed at them.

Sherlock watched John over the edge of the magazine as he puttered around the flat in his usual post-case daze. It was early morning still, and John hadn’t slept for days, which was unusual for him. Sherlock observed John as he made tea in the kitchen, somewhat of a hopeless bid for caffeine to keep him awake, but mostly just a means of comfort, and then settled down in his usual chair with the mug in his hand, sighing deeply and closing his eyes.

Sherlock put the magazine aside, all pretenses of pretending to read forgotten, and looked at John openly. He had furrows on his brow from exhaustion, but otherwise, his face was relaxed, almost a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. His hand was hanging over the edge of the chair, mug held tightly by its lip with the tips of John’s fingers.

Sherlock grinned. If he ever worried about John potentially growing tired of assisting him on cases, he knew he needn’t bother. In this moment, John was utterly and thoroughly _relaxed._ Far more relaxed than he’d ever seen him at the end of a dull day filled with such ordinary activities as _going to work_ and _watching the telly._

Fingers poised under his chin, Sherlock leaned forward as he observed the muscles in John’s body slowly and subtly relaxing. His hips shifted forward, his shoulders fell back, his legs -

Sherlock couldn’t complete the thought. A loud _crash_ pierced the air as the mug that had been in John’s hand slipped from his loosened fingers.

“Damn!” John shouted and jerked out of his seat, completely awake now. Tea spread in an ever-widening circle on the floor as he leapt up to grab towels to sop it up.

Sherlock could only stare at the wreckage of the tea in an emotion most closely resembling shock, as much as he could be shocked. He hadn’t seen that coming at all, and he’d been _looking right at_ John. Thinking back, it was obvious. He knew John was falling asleep, saw the muscles of his body relaxing. Why hadn’t Sherlock realized and woken John up, or grabbed the mug from his hand before it fell?

“I wouldn’t say no if you wanted to lend a hand,” John said as he moved the towel around the floor, sloshing around the broken porcelain and sending little waves of tea moving around.

It was a testament to how confused he still was by his observation failure that Sherlock simply got up without a word and grabbed another towel to help mop up the mess.

***

A few days later, Sherlock was still turning that moment over and over in his mind. He found his eyes repeatedly drawn to the slightly dark spot on the floor - stained from the spill.

He had _seen,_ but not _observed._

Why?

“All right, Sherlock?” John’s voice cut through his thoughts. He was sitting at one end of the couch, tapping away on his laptop, and Sherlock was on the other end.. staring at nothing. And had been for probably the last half hour.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said irritably.

“Really. Because you don’t look it.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically and stared up at the ceiling. He was already annoyed at his inability to decipher his own failures, he didn’t need John attempting to dissect them as well.

“Fine, if you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to.” John shrugged and looked back down at his laptop. “I was only trying to help.”

Sherlock got up and flounced out of the room, dressing gown trailing behind him dramatically as he shot the dark spot on the floor a dirty look.

***

It came to him in the middle of the night, as he laid on top of his bed, in his dressing gown, staring into the dark and letting the thoughts tumble unchecked through his mind. Why he’d seen, but why he hadn’t observed. He’d been distracted.

Distracted by John.

“Nonsense!” Sherlock shouted at the dark, quiet room. He rolled onto his side and punched his pillow, ostensibly to shape it into something more comfortable, but really as an outlet for his frustration.

Sherlock Holmes did not get distracted by people. Even a friend. Even John Watson.

But try as he might, it was the only conclusion he could come to. The only one that fit. Because the only other conclusion was that he was _losing his mind._ And as much as Sherlock may have preferred that, he knew it wasn’t the case.

But he had been distracted by John. Sherlock had enjoyed seeing John’s contentment after another case solved. The way his body had shifted and relaxed; John rarely was that happy, and for Sherlock to know it was because of their adventure together -

No, that was going too far. Sherlock refused to go down that train of thought. John had been happy. And Sherlock didn’t _hate_ to see John happy. That was all.

Sherlock sighed as noisily as he could. He picked up his phone for something to do, but set it down a moment later, lest he throw it against the wall in frustration. He was fidgety and annoyed and didn’t like what had happened to him. He wasn’t affected by other people. That didn’t happen.

And yet, it had.

He flopped onto his back and blinked uselessly into the dark. His mind wandered to John, upstairs in his bedroom. Sherlock strained his ears, listening for any sound from John, to indicate if he was awake or not, or having a nightmare, but heard nothing beyond the sounds of a sleeping Baker St outside his window.

Sherlock got up, abandoning sleep for the night, and moved locations from his bed to the living room couch, turning on lights as he went. He lay on his side on the couch and stared at the spot on the floor again. Something was different.

It couldn’t have been John. Though he knew of John’s repressed feelings towards him, that had been a steady presence for at least the past two months. It was Sherlock. Something had changed in Sherlock. Some flip had switched inside him, some long abandoned emotion had been dusted off and brought to the forefront.

Sherlock.. _cared_ about John. And no, he’d never _not_ cared, but this was a different caring. Something that pinged in his chest in a slightly different way.

He groaned at the direction his thoughts were taking and rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes until stars burst in his vision. Sherlock was aghast at the revelation, but he felt a relief similar to the relief he felt when solving a difficult case. He knew what it was.

Now, he just had to go about fixing it.


End file.
